


Stew and Stories

by Lightbulbs



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Book 01: The Way of Kings, Campfire stories, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 10:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbulbs/pseuds/Lightbulbs
Summary: Bridge Four tells stories around the fire while Kaladin wrestles with the wretch.[Set midway through The Way of Kings]





	Stew and Stories

Bridge Four sat around the fire, eating Rock’s stew and easing into conversation. Kaladin had known it would be difficult to win the bridgemen over, but over the past few weeks, they’d grown closer. Like broken bones knitting together, they had ossified into something stronger, more enduring.

Too bad they were destined to be broken again.

The night was cool, and everyone seemed to lean into the warmth of the fire. The bridge run that day had resulted in plenty of aching legs and sore backs. Kaladin himself wrestled with more aches than most. It wasn’t long ago that he’d emerged from the highstorm, waking up bruised but alive. He shouldn’t be _ awake, _much less sitting upright.

The men saw Kaladin as a miracle, but he felt like a curse. Not only was his body worn, like crem mashed down beneath soldiers’ boots, but his thoughts were bleak. The bridgemen were doomed to die under Sadeas’s orders, and all he could do was make their remaining time alive less awful. Even Sigzil had said as much.

Kaladin could see it coming, the darkness that would soon overwhelm him. In days—perhaps even tomorrow—he would become the wretch. Would he take his men down with him?

“What say we tell scary stories?” said their newest member, the loud Herdazian man who called himself the Lopen. He looked around the fire at all the doubtful faces. “What? That’s what you’re supposed to do, innit? Tell stories until Mishim rises up in the sky?” 

“We could sing,” offered Dunny.

“You don’t want to hear my rendition of ‘The Stormlit Maiden,’ gancho.” Lopen gave a one-armed shrug. “I sing so well that mortal man can’t process it. My cousins say my singing sounds like a dying chicken, but I’m sure a god would say otherwise.”

Syl hummed in Kaladin’s ear at that, and he shushed her under his breath. There was a bit of chatter now, unfocused and dispersed, until Rock spoke up. “Stew and stories,” he said. “Is good idea.” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin, obviously still pleased with his new gift.

“It’s stupid is what it is,” someone muttered.

Kaladin couldn’t tell who’d spoken, but several of the men looked around. Just like that, the buoyant mood seemed to sink a little. Stew was one thing; stories were something else altogether, far too close to talking about their lives before Bridge Four. He’d asked for the men’s pasts, but not everyone was willing to share.

_ Looks like it won’t matter anyway, _Kaladin thought dejectedly.

“I’ll start!” said Lopen, ignoring the odd tension. He cleared his throat, then began, “There once was a lighteyed woman who went to the tailor’s for a new dress for a party that night. She saw nothing she liked at first, just the usual fashions—”

“Fashion _ can _be pretty scary,” interjected Dunny. Lopen gave him a look, and the young man turned away, taking a bite of his stew.

“Anyway,” Lopen continued, “she saw a dress in the back, all fancy and the like. It was a dark, dark black. She said, ‘I want that one.’ The tailor told her no. The woman made a fuss and said, ‘But that’s the one I want.’ Again, the tailor refused. The woman wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Moash snorted. “Sounds about right. Storming lighteyes always have to get their way.” A few men laughed at that.

“Ey, gancho, who’s telling the story here?” Lopen waited for everyone to settle down, not speaking until only the crackle of the fire and the scrape of spoons against bowls could be heard. He continued. “After complaining long enough—or after a few threats—”

“I’m tellin’ ya, those stormin’ lighteyes—”

“Shh!”

“—the woman finally got her dress,” Lopen said, talking over the interruption. “She wore it to the party. The whole night, she caught everyone’s eye. She was a right chortana, that one. But then she began to feel bad.”

A few of the men looked interested in the story now. Even Syl was curious, flitting back and forth between Kaladin and Lopen as the Herdazian wove words through the night air. Lopen seemed to savor this attention as much as the stew. “Now I don’t mean she felt bad about bein’ a terrible person,” he said. “No! I mean she felt sick.”

Nomon had started to rise, giving the firelight an eerie blue tinge. Most of the men had finished their stew, and bowls and utensils lay scattered on the ground below. As always, a few soldiers out on nighttime jaunts looked over at the gathering, as if considering whether the bridgemen should be allowed to carouse so.

Kaladin wondered how long this idle peace would last. He knew Bridge Four’s true purpose: fodder for the Parshendi arrows. _Will this be our last night around the fire?_

“Anyway!” said Lopen. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Our lovely chortana wasn’t feeling so lovely anymore. When the woman had first arrived, she was a striking beauty. Tall, her long, black hair woven with gemstones. But by the end of the party, her skin was all...” He paused and looked up, as if searching for the right word. “What d’you call it when a person looks like a corpse, with their skin all pale and wrinkly?”

Drehy hesitantly spoke up. “Didn’t you just describe it?”

“Ah! Right you are. Her skin was like a corpse,” Lopen said. “Her ladies-in-waiting helped her home, but she barely made it. As she stepped into her home, she fell, legs too weak to move. She tried to remove the dress, but her hands were shaking.” He stopped to look around the fire. “She died there, she did. In that. Very. Dress.” He punctuated each word with a sharp motion.

The men grew quiet, a few eating their last bites of stew. Finally, someone piped up. “...and?”

“‘And’?” Lopen rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to wonder if it’s haunted, or cursed, or whatever. Why wouldn’t the tailor sell the dress? Something was wrong with it, gancho!”

“Maybe the tailor just didn’t like lighteyes,” said Skar.

“Or maybe it was _ haunted,_” said Lopen. “It could’ve strangled her, or hopped out from a wardrobe to smother her in her sleep. Maybe that’s what it _ did. _Who knows?”

“A dress cannot do these things,” said Rock dismissively.

“Well,” said Lopen, “maybe Horneater dresses can’t, but this was a very special, very haunted dress indeed.”

“Sounds like blackbane poisoning,” murmured Kaladin. “Paralysis, and the slow onset could be due to the dye in the dress leaching out. It’s only supposed to be poisonous when ingested, however…” 

“Wow,” said Lopen. He shook his head. “Way to kill the mood. Sigzil, you know things, right? Tell us a story.” But the Azish man just looked away, refusing to speak.

“I’ve got something,” said Skar, stretching out on his log.

“That’s the spirit, gancho!”

“All right,” Skar began. “They say on dark nights like these, the shades of the Lost Radiants follow you around. If you’re not careful, you’ll be taken away, and your life will be drained like a sphere going dun.”

A few of the men grew still, as if considering this. The small shift in wind seemed dangerous, as if the Radiants of old were responding to a summons. Even the fire seemed to flicker ominously. Kaladin looked around, remembering the times he’d spent in the slave wagons, waiting for shades to appear on the highstorms’ winds.

“Storming stupid.”

Skar frowned. “What was that?”

“I said,” said Teft, “storming stupid.”

Murmurs. “Why do you say that, huh?” said Skar. “Everyone knows about the Radiants. They betrayed us. They’re real.”

“No,” said Teft. He shook his head. “New story. No one’s talking about Radiants tonight.”

“Ha! You scared?” said Moash. “I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d believe in something like that.”

“Knock it off.” Teft’s voice was low, calm but with a brittle edge. He’d always been gruff with his words, but there was something more there tonight, something… 

“No,” said Moash. “I say you keep talking, Skar. Radiants are scarier than a dress, at least.”

“Is campfire tale,” said Rock. He pointed to the fire, where the logs still flickered. “Fire is right there. Campfire tale is appropriate. No need to fight.”

The men were growing restless. Kaladin was afraid this might happen. Most of the men trusted him. Thanks to his survival in the highstorm, some of them _ idolized _him. But there were still a few holdouts, like Bisig, who’d only listened to him thanks to threats from Rock and Teft. Bridge Four hadn’t fully meshed yet, just like a splinted leg couldn’t heal without time and care.

He sighed. _ Tonight, _ he thought, _ I am Kaladin Stormblessed. I will keep these men together. _

“There once was a family living in a small village,” Kaladin said, breaking through the shouts and speaking with enough force to capture the attention of Teft and Moash before things got ugly. His steady voice quieted the lingering chatter, leaving the yard silent. Everyone settled back down, looking at him as he spoke. “The village was quiet, and for the most part, the family was happy.”

He paused. “One day,” he said, “a Voidbringer came to town.” There were a few murmurs at this. He ignored the way that Syl flitted around him, framing his vision with blue streaks of light. “The Voidbringer looked like a man, and he told the people to bow to him. The head of the family refused, and from that moment, he was cursed.”

“Was he killed right there?” asked Dunny. He looked nervous, firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. “They say Voidbringers destroy everything.”

“No,” said Kaladin. “The man had lived a good, principled life. His wife burnt glyph wards against evil. He believed that his family would be safe. But he was wrong.” Kaladin swallowed, his throat tight. “The whole family bore the curse, including his wife and sons.”

“Kelek’s breath,” said Teft in a quiet voice.

Kaladin could feel Syl on his shoulder, leaning into him and resting her hands against his neck as he spoke. He hardly noticed. All he could think of was Roshone’s arrival in Hearthstone. The army fitting him for a uniform and handing him a spear.

Tien smiling at him from a battlefield.

“The curse hit hard,” he continued. “There were only small misfortunes at first, like lavis grain going bad and spheres going missing. Then it hit with enough force to send the two sons away from the village. The older son promised to protect his brother. But the younger son… The younger son died.”

Kaladin felt cold. He said nothing else.

“What happened next?”

Kaladin turned to look at Moash, who’d been the one to speak. All humor was gone, replaced by a steely look in his eyes. As Kaladin glanced around, he could see the sober faces of other men around the fire. Teft frowned at the dirt. Rock looked towards Syl’s faint glow. Sigzil eyed him appraisingly.

“The older son couldn’t handle the loss,” Kaladin murmured. “He took his life soon after. That was the true meaning behind the Voidbringer’s curse, you see. That the man would lose everyone he held dear.”

Syl made a noise of protest. But it was true. The older son_ had _ died, even if a new man had taken over the life he’d left behind.

_ A surgeon. A soldier. A wretch. I’ve storming made things worse, haven’t I? _

“So…” he said, trying not to sound as glum as he felt, “if you ever meet a Voidbringer, be sure not to cross him.”

The fire crackled as men shifted on their seats. A few fearspren wriggled on the ground, quickly disappearing.

“I take it back, gancho,” Lopen finally said. “You’re not a mood-killer. A regular killer, though… Guess I’ll watch myself in the barracks tonight, ey?”

There was nervous laughter. Somehow, that was enough. The icy atmosphere thawed a bit, and Rock said, “Good story. Now finish eating!” He pointed to Kaladin’s full bowl. “The stew is getting cold, and cold stew is bad stew. Eat, eat!”

A few men stood and stretched, attention pulled away from Kaladin for a moment. He looked at his stew. He hadn’t touched it since Dunny had handed it to him.

“That wasn’t true,” came a whisper in his ear. It was Syl. Her voice, though quiet, cut through the chatter in the small yard.

“All the important parts were,” he murmured.

Syl flew in front of him, her bright glow eclipsing the fire. She looked like a woman again, her white dress billowing around her. “You aren’t cursed,” she said.

Kaladin didn’t reply. He took a bite of the stew, ignoring her. It tasted of nothing. As he lifted his spoon again, he found Syl balancing on the lip of the bowl, hands on her hips. “You _aren’t_,”she said.

“I am,” he said. “I can’t protect—” 

“Who are you talking to?”

Kaladin looked to see the men grinning at him, unaware of the wretch that wore his skin. “Just a voice on the wind,” he said. Syl huffed and flew to the fire to watch a flamespren dance. “Dunny, how about you lead us in a song? And Lopen… maybe you shouldn’t sing.”

Bridge Four sat around the fire, laughing and singing as Nomon began its downward arc. Kaladin just watched them, dreading the days ahead.


End file.
